


quiet steps away from you lead

by IceEckos12



Series: jon and gerry versus the world [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Cancer, Child Abuse, Emotional Manipulation, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied homophobia, M/M, Reference to Canonical Character Death, author comes to terms with the fact that her favorite character may in fact be gerry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:22:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23922280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IceEckos12/pseuds/IceEckos12
Summary: There's more to the books and the monsters than the destruction they cause. There's more to the Magnus Institute than making a statement, and Gertrude Robinson is certainly more than just a sweet old lady.Jon and Gerry learn that growing up was the easy bit.
Relationships: Gerard Keay/Jonathan Sims
Series: jon and gerry versus the world [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1688725
Comments: 100
Kudos: 472





	quiet steps away from you lead

**Author's Note:**

> how this oneshot went: wrote 8 pages. got stuck. read a friend's oneshot. cried a little. wrote another 32 pages.
> 
> title taken from reasons why by nickel creek.
> 
> seriously y'all, heed the tags. if you're especially worried about something, just send me a dm on tumblr (iceeckos12.tumblr.com).
> 
> thanks so much to eeveecat1248 for betaing for me, she's a lifesaver!!!

**_Age: 21_ **

There was a knock on the door in the middle of the night.

It was two in the morning. Gerry was already fast asleep, sprawled across their bed, his hair twisted up on the pillow. Jon was not asleep, because he had a paper due in the morning about ethics in business or something equally inane. He didn’t actually remember what he was supposed to be writing _about._ He had been up for forty-eight hours, and as soon as he finished he was going to lie down on the floor and sleep for as long as Gerry would let him.

Jon gripped the bridge of his nose, trying to will the words swimming on his computer screen into some semblance of order. His head was throbbing, and his mouth was parched. He tried to remember the last time he had something to drink.

The pounding in Jon’s head intensified, and he groaned and dragged his hands through his hair. _Maybe I shouldn’t have had that much coffee,_ he thought hysterically. Gerry was usually his impulse control, but he’d been working all day, so Jon had been left to his own devices.

Then he frowned and looked up.

The pounding, he realized, was not coming from inside his skull. It was coming _from the front door._

Jon jumped to his feet and power walked as quickly as he was able, a ball of cold fury and anxiety developing in the pit of his stomach. _It is two in the damn morning,_ he thought viciously. _I will not forgive them if they wake Gerry up._

Jon threw open the door, mouth already open to deliver a scathing torrent of insults to whoever would be bothering them at this time—but froze dead in his tracks.

There were a couple of police officers shifting back and forth in the hall, wearing big, bulky jackets and grim expressions. They both looked up when Jon slammed open the door, all fight and fury, and he suddenly realized that he was barefoot, wearing his long flannel pyjama bottoms, a nyan cat t-shirt that his friend Georgie gotten him as a joke, and an ancient terrycloth bathrobe.

“Mr. Keay?” One of them asked.

Jon wrapped his bathrobe around his waist and smoothed his hair back from his forehead self-consciously. “No. I’m Jonathan Sims, his flatmate. Gerry is asleep right now. Can I take a message?”

The police exchanged weighted looks.

“I think you’ll probably want to wake him up,” the woman said carefully. “It’s about his mother. There’s been an...incident.”

Jon’s breath caught in his chest. He hadn’t thought about Mary Keay in several years, not since he was eighteen and had moved into the Keay residence for a few days after getting kicked out of his gran’s house. He didn’t remember a lot from that time—he had spent a lot of it in a confused daze—but he _did_ remember Mary hovering on the fringes of his awareness at all times, like a dark, malevolent shadow.

He was pretty sure that Gerry still cared for Mary in some capacity. At the very least, he felt some sort of responsibility toward her. 

Jon darted a look toward the woman, then the man. He pursed his lips and sighed harshly through his nose, before shaking his head and saying, “Wait here, please.”

Gerry let out a confused noise, like a sleepy cat, when Jon shook his shoulder. He blinked hazily at Jon’s face, before turning over and burying himself back under the covers.

“Ger, come on,” Jon whispered. “The police are here. It’s about your mum.”

“To hell with my mum,” Gerry muttered back.

Jon choked on a startled laugh. “Please.”

It took a few more fruitless attempts before Gerry finally rolled out of bed, hair frizzy, still muddled from sleep. He rubbed at his eyes as Jon gently shoved him into the living room, almost staggering into the end table next to the couch before righting himself.

And then he paused.

Jon shoved at his back again, trying to get this sleepy, overgrown man to _move,_ but stilled when Gerry let out a quiet, wounded noise.

“Gerry?” Jon asked, frowning in bewilderment..

“Mum?” Gerry asked, and Jon felt his stomach lurch with dread. “What the—what the hell did you do to yourself?”

“Gerard,” a horribly familiar voice said. Jon peered around Gerry’s bicep, his jaw dropping when he saw Mary Keay standing in their living room, her dark nothing eyes sucking in all the light. “Thanks for killing me, by the way. I always knew that you cared.”

**_Age: 18_ **

The long and short of it is: Jon’s gran finally found Gerry and Jon asleep together in his bed.

Jon had been expecting it for some time now, if he was being honest. Gerry had been sleeping in Jon’s room for the past three years, though they had only been cuddling for one year of that time. They’d made messes dying Gerry’s hair in the bathroom, caused far too much noise getting into spitting arguments, gotten dust and dirt all over the floors. It was only a matter of _time._

What Jon did not expect was for his gran to kick both him and Gerry out onto the street with nothing more than Gerry’s duffle bag. It apparently didn’t matter what Jon and Gerry had or had not been doing in the bed; the fact that they were sharing was enough.

At the very least, it wasn’t like they had nowhere to go. Jon had been accepted with a full ride to Oxford, and they had been planning on moving into a flat there together anyway. They only needed to stay at Mary’s for a few days before they were moving into their new place.

It was hard, though, and not just because Jon was still reeling over the fact that his gran apparently had no qualms about kicking him out over someone he loved very dearly. His gran had agreed to put up Jon’s portion of the rent when he was at school, but after the incident, he'd lost that support. Compound that on top of basic living expenses, well…

It was tense for a while. Gerry applied for every job that would hire someone who didn’t have a high school education. Jon, fresh-faced and awkward, started to work nights at a local tavern. It was hard, sure. There were tight lines around Gerry’s mouth all the time, and Jon constantly felt on edge, constantly felt as though he were grasping at thin air as he struggled to balance schoolwork on top of his job.

But for three years, they made it work. For three years, they went to their normal jobs and went about their normal life, occasionally interspersed with the excitement of finding another Leitner to destroy. Jon was even on track to graduate early.

And then _Mary Keay_ had to try and bind herself into that fucking book.

**_Age: 21_ **

Jon sat at the dinner table, wringing his hands in front of him, staring at the clock.

It had been almost four days since he last saw Gerry. Mary had appeared five days ago, and then insisted on taking a trip out of town, without Jon. Jon had been livid of course, had tried to argue, but Gerry had been far, far too quick to agree.

Jon had wanted to scream then, and he wanted to scream now. Mary had threatened Jon before, but the fact that she was now a powerful spirit meant that her capacity to do harm had significantly increased. So for the past three months, Mary Keay had manifested for a week or so to torment Gerry, before fading for just as long to...restore herself? Jon was never sure. All he cared about is the fact that he was powerless in keeping her from hurting Gerry.

Jon looked at the clock again and started picking at his fingernails. He just felt so helpless. Gerry had been there when Jon needed him most, and _Jon could not do anything now._ That was the worst part of all of this, he thought. After Mary, Gerry always came home with bags like bruises under his eyes, and spent every free moment in a sort of frantic, desperate relief.

They couldn’t keep doing this.

Jon caught himself biting at a fingernail, and forced his hand back down to the table. _Stop that,_ his gran’s voice snapped in his head.

Jon kept watching the clock.

The next day, the door opened at nine in the morning, and Gerry stumbled into their flat and then proceeded to sleep on the couch for the next eighteen hours. Jon was only barely able to keep him from collapsing onto the floor, because his joints had gone stiff from sitting in the chair all night.

* * *

“You’re sure she’s gone?” Jon asked, carefully studying the interior of their flat, as though Mary was the kind of person to hide in the cupboards. Well, technically she _was_ hiding in the cupboards, because that was where Jon had stuffed her book.

Gerry shrugged his shoulder, an exhausted motion that lacked his usual casual grace. “I...I think so. She was here all week, and…”

“Now she’s not,” Jon finished, taking a step back and studying his partner. Gerry’s eyes were rimmed with dark shadows that couldn’t be attributed to his makeup, and he was avoiding Jon’s gaze. “Are you sure that you’re up to this? I can probably do it myself, if you want to…”

“I’m fine,” Gerry snapped, metaphorical hackles raised, his dark eyebrows gathering like stormclouds on the horizon. “I’ve been— _we_ have been researching this Leitner for three weeks. I’d rather find it before it can do any more harm.”

There were too many sharp edges in Gerry’s voice, too much misplaced frustration and stress. Jon tried very, very hard not to take it personally. It was true that it’d been quite some time since they’d dealt with a Leitner, which was agitating them both. And with Mary on top of that...

He must not have been very good at hiding the hurt, or Gerry knew him too well, because Gerry let out a quiet sigh and buried his head in his hands. After a moment he said, muffled and repentant, “I’m sorry, Jon.”

Jon stepped forward and tentatively rested his hand on Gerry’s shoulder. Gerry had been jumpy ever since Mary came into their lives, and Jon hated to think about it too hard. “It’s...it’s fine.”

Gerry lowered his hands and smiled at Jon, and for a moment the stress dropped away, replaced with quiet fondness. He reached up and squeezed Jon’s hand, the skin slightly clammy, and gave him a grateful smile.

Jon clamped down on the simmering worry that threatened to overflow. He hadn’t told Gerry that he’d been looking into...other options to try and get rid of Mary. Gerry was insistent that they could figure it out together, and Jon had always respected his _us against the world_ attitude—it was true enough most days—but this...

Jon didn’t think that they had the expertise to deal with this, and there was very little that he would not do to keep Gerry safe.

They made their way downstairs in silence, the comfortable sort that had been smoothed over by years of routine. Jon put the motorcycle helmet over his head, taking care not to let it catch on the stud in his ear. Gerry slid into the front seat, resting his feet on the pegs, long black hair draped over one shoulder to keep Jon from accidentally getting it in his mouth. Jon’s hands skimmed Gerry’s jacket as he got on, before curling around Gerry’s waist and settling there. Molded together like this, Gerry warm and safe against him, Jon finally felt like he could relax.

“When are you going to let me drive again?” He dared to shout as the engine whirred to life.

Jon couldn’t see it, but the smirk Gerry was surely wearing made his cheek puff out, just a little. “Never, Jon. You drive like a damn lunatic.”

Jon’s laugh was carried away by the wind, and then they were roaring down the street, eating up the pavement. Jon sighed and rested his temple against Gerry’s back, so relieved to be here that his heart tightened in his chest. The jobs, the schoolwork, the _everything,_ paled in comparison to Jon on the back of the motorcycle, arms wrapped around Gerry, on their way to destroy a monstrous book. It felt more real than anything else he’d ever done.

It should worry him. It did sometimes, the intensity of this emotion, the way his heart pounded, the way Gerry utterly _ruined_ him for what was considered to be normal. It didn’t quite worry him enough to stop.

Two hours later, they were pulling up to their intended stop. It was a tiny market town near Hampshire called New Milton, which looked as though it hadn’t quite caught up with the modern era. Gerry slowed down to let Jon get a better look at the shops lining the main street, before speeding up again.

 _The beach,_ Jon thought. There had been a slew of incidents of people, mostly tourists, walking down to the beach and devouring mouthfuls of sand, shoving it into their faces until the skin was scraped raw. The body count wasn’t that high yet, but it was only a matter of time.

Gerry parked the motorcycle, and they gathered their respective bags before tromping out onto the sand. It was only then that Jon thought to glare down at his plain grey tennis shoes.

“I’m going to get sand in my shoes,” he realized.

Gerry, who was wearing his enormous combat boots and thus did not have this problem, glanced down at Jon’s shoes, eyebrows furrowed. “Jon, literally you grew up next to a beach.”

Jon flushed as his foot sunk into a small dune, and dust poured into the space between his sock and the sole of his foot. The texture of it was screaming in his brain. “I didn’t think about it.”

“I could carry you?” Gerry wiggled his eyebrows.

Jon shook his head laughingly, which was why he missed Gerry moving to sweep him into a bridal carry until it was too late. He let out a surprised shriek and clutched at the trench coat as Gerry spun them in circles, unsteady and stumbling on the uneven ground.

“You—put me down this instant!” Jon demanded, but he couldn’t stop grinning. Gerry’s laughter rumbled up from his chest like the purr of a cat.

Gerry spun him around a couple more times, and then finally let him drop back onto the sand. Jon didn’t let go of Gerry’s jacket, however, using his grip to pull Gerry down and kiss him soundly.

They broke apart after a few seconds. Gerry smiled and wordlessly tucked Jon’s bangs behind his ear before wandering away.

They wandered the beach the first day, Jon swearing viciously every time he had to stop to dump out his shoes. They didn’t find anything, but they half-expected that; clues rarely turned up on the first day. The second day they went through town, accosting various locals for information on the mysterious happenings. Gerry was the only one allowed to talk, though, because Jon was caustic and rude to strangers on a good day.

(Jon bought Gerry ice cream, and it was completely worth it for the way his partner’s face lit up.)

The third day, they finally found something. Which was good, because Jon had only been able to get the four days off of work, and he was really not that keen on missing more than two days of school.

“Any odd books?” the woman at the front desk of the local secondhand bookshop asked, staring up at Gerry with awestruck eyes. “Well...sure. We get plenty of odd books.”

Jon was only half paying attention as the conversation continued, his fingers lightly skimming the spines of the books in the biography section. It was a pretty good bookshop, actually; some of the books had been expertly rebound. The selection was nice, too. Gerry wouldn’t begrudge him taking a few of these home, he was sure.

“Should I give you and these books a room?” Gerry’s voice was mild in Jon’s ear, but he jumped anyway.

Jon shoved him, and Gerry stepped away with a laugh. “I might come back later, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Sure,” Gerry said, putting a hand on Jon’s back before letting it drop. It was as much PDA as either of them were comfortable with. “I think I found something, though, so that might be sooner than you think.”

Jon glanced a startled look toward the woman, who was now studiously avoiding looking at them. Gerry shook his head and interrupted in an undertone before Jon could get the question out. “Not here, but there’s a shop that a lot of tourists stop by on their way to the beach that recently got a shipment of books. I’m getting a good feeling about it.”

Gerry’s ‘good feelings’, whatever the cause may have been, were usually always spot on. Jon noded, and they clambered back onto the motorcycle and sped away.

They found the Leitner. It was obviously old, the pages roughly cut, sand or something else with a gritty texture embedded in the cover. It was _also_ sitting on a display in the middle of the visitor’s center, propped open for the entire world to see. Jon almost swallowed his own tongue when he saw it, because _how did this place not know how dangerous this is?_

Retrieving it was easy enough. Gerry charmed the woman at the counter as Jon surreptitiously stuffed the book into his bag and headed back outside. He leaned against the motorcycle as he waited, the book burning a hole in his bag.

A couple of minutes later, Gerry finally left the visitor’s center, shaking his head.

“Can you believe that?” Jon demanded, aghast. “It was just sitting there!”

Gerry handed Jon his helmet, and slid onto the motorcycle. Jon paused just long enough to buckle the helmet before clambering on behind him. “I’m surprised more people weren’t killed.”

They rode back to the little bed and breakfast they’d been staying at to check out, before heading back into town so Jon could pick out a few books from that shop while Gerry waited outside. That finished, they finally eased back onto the road toward Oxford, Jon pressed in tight to Gerry’s back so he could soak up as much residual warmth as possible.

After about ten minutes of driving, Gerry turned and shouted, “Want to stop for dinner on the way back?”

 _Just like old times._ “Yeah!”

They were quiet for the next twenty minutes, and Jon let his mind drift as Gerry guided them down the highway. It had been far too long since they’d been able to do this. Usually they managed to get out of the flat at least once every month or so, and even if they didn’t find anything, it was still nice to step away from...everything. Remind themselves about the things that were out there, the things that they could protect other people from.

It was different for Gerry, Jon knew. Gerry was raised to be as much a part of the supernatural as the books or the monsters that they stop. Jon didn’t let it bother him—he had long since gotten used to Gerry’s moments of uncanny knowledge, had come to love him for it, even. However it just meant that the jobs, the college, the flat, what other people would consider to be normal life, was that much harder.

But now—

Jon didn’t realize what was happening at first. One minute they were flying down the highway, Jon half-dozing, trusting—

The motorcycle’s wheels screeched, and the world was _spinning—_ Jon reflexively gripped Gerry as hard as he could, trying desperately not to let go, too shocked to scream—

They spun one final time, Jon’s stomach giving a sickening lurch, before grinding to a halt. Jon dimly realized that his hands were shaking, breath too fast, too shallow. _Did we—did we get hit?_

 _“Fuck!”_ Gerry shouted, and slid from the motorcycle to the gravel on the side of the road. The sudden loss of heat, of comfort, made him so cold that his breath caught in his chest.

There was a figure walking down the road toward them, probably what had scared Gerry so badly. She was bald, with high, sharp cheekbones and tattoos scrawling across her head, and—

“Is that any way to greet your mother?” Mary said coolly.

Jon wanted to say, _get the hell away from him._ He wanted to get up and start yelling at Mary, how dare she, how _dare_ she ruin this for them, how—how could he—he couldn’t feel his fingertips, and he couldn’t breathe. Oh _god, he can’t breathe._

“Mum,” Gerry rasped out, dragging his hands through his long hair, not looking at Jon or Mary. He was trembling in the gravel, and Jon wanted to _scream._ “You can’t—you—”

“You found a book for me,” Mary continued, and she was getting closer, closer, until she was standing over Gerry. Jon almost gagged when she patted his head like he was a child, or a _dog._ “I’m so proud.”

“It’s not for you,” Jon tried to say, but the words were stuck in his throat. His entire body was shaking now, and he gripped at his arms to try and still himself.

“Come with me, Gerry,” Mary said, and Jon felt overwhelmingly grateful when she stopped touching Gerry. She instead directed her sneer to Jon, and he stared back, the slow, burning fury beginning to overcome everything else.

Gerry let out a low, wounded sound.

Jon forced himself to tip off of the motorcycle, landing in a heap next to him. “He’s not coming with you,” he growled, pushing himself up onto his elbows. His legs were too shaky for him to stand, but fine. Whatever. “Leave him alone.”

Mary fixed Jon with another disinterested look. “He’s my son. He comes when I say he does.”

“Like _hell_ he does!” _Get up. Get up. Defend Gerry. Get up._ “You almost got us killed!”

Mary’s face creased with something that looked like anger, and Jon thought, _finally._ She’d been apathetic, uncaring the few times he’d met her, which Jon had always thought was unfair, since he despised her with every fiber of his being. He wanted to get under her skin the same way she got under his. He wanted her to _bleed_ for everything she’d put Gerry through _._

“Jon, enough.”

Jon looked to Gerry, who was slowly pushing himself into a kneeling position. “...Gerry?”

Gerry took his hand and pressed something small and metallic into it. Jon stared at him, trying to peer into his thoughts, but he _couldn’t._ Gerry’s eyes were dull, resigned, his shoulders deflated.

Jon opened his hand, and his eyes widened, and his heart dropped into his feet.

“Gerry,” he whispered. “No.”

Gerry cupped his face and drew him into a slow, bruising kiss that tasted like desperation and salt, and nights spent going stiff and cold at the kitchen table. Jon kissed back, burying his hands into Gerry’s hair, dragging his partner as close to his chest as he was able, the metal of the motorcycle keys digging into his palm. For a moment Jon could ignore the burning gaze of Mary, could ignore the gravel pressing sharply into his legs.

They finally broke apart, and Gerry gently rested his forehead against Jon’s, their breaths mingling in the small space between them.

“I won’t let her hurt you,” Gerry told him, the same way he told him _I am going to kiss you now,_ his hair wet through with dye, all matter-of-fact determination.

Jon twisted his fingers in Gerry’s jacket. “I’m coming with you.”

 _“No,”_ Mary and Gerry said at the same time, for once in complete agreement.

Jon shook his head helplessly. He had never been that certain of anything in his life except for how much he loved Gerry. He tried, though. By god, did he try, gripping Gerry’s arm, holding him close. “I am going to help you.”

Gerry...looked at him for a moment, then. His eyes were the color of steel, jagged, despondent, a far cry from the bright, happy things they’d been not too long ago.

 _He doesn’t know if he believes me,_ Jon thought, and felt his heart break.

And then Jon watched as Gerry got up and followed his mother, his head bowed, footsteps dull and dragging. He sat there in the gravel, breathing harshly as his hands dug red crescents into his still-shaking legs. And when he finally felt the tremble settle, when he finally felt steady enough to get up, he slowly stood to his feet and slid onto the motorcycle.

Gerry didn’t know whether or not Jon would be able to help him. Gerry, who had glared at his bullies. Gerry, who had stroked his hair as he sat in shock on the couch, unable to digest the fact that his grandmother had finally kicked him out of the house. Gerry, who didn’t have to follow him to Oxford, who didn’t have to work two jobs just to keep them afloat, but _had._

Gerry, whom he had fallen in love with a million years ago, who he didn’t know how to _stop_ loving.

Jon eased the motorcycle back onto the road. As soon as he did, he slammed down on the gas, going as fast as the vehicle could go. It thrummed beneath his fingertips, up his arms, throughout his whole body.

 _Enough,_ Jon thought as rain began to plip onto his face, into the stiff whiteness of his shirt. _That is quite enough._

**_Age 18_ **

Jon stared numbly into the bowl of cereal in his hands.

He wasn’t sure what time it was, or even how he came to be sitting on this couch, a heavy weight over his shoulders. He wasn’t even sure who put the bowl of cereal in his hands though he felt as though he should, and it had long since gone soggy. There was a warm, comfortable haze over his thoughts, a blanket that covered him in a warm sense of apathy, and he didn’t want to touch it. He continued to simply exist from one moment to the next, unaffected by the flow of time about him.

There was a hand in his hair, now. It gently carded through the short strands, starting from the top of his head and ending at the nape of his neck, before starting over again. Every once in a while it’d pause over his nape, moulding against his skin, as though it were trying to ground him, keep him from disappearing any further into that welcoming haze of nothing.

Jon took a slow, deep breath in, and one of the pieces of cereal detached from the rest of the group and floated to the side of the bowl. Incense and cigarettes tasted heavy on his tongue.

Finally, he sat up and looked around the room. He immediately recognized where he was; the haphazard stacks of books and the odd, ghoulish decor was a dead giveaway for Mary Keay’s bookshop. His stomach lurched at the idea of Gerry willingly knocking on his mother’s door, asking if they could stay here. It felt _wrong_ after he’d fought so hard to get out from under her thumb _._

“Hey,” a quiet, tentative voice said, and Jon turned to look at Gerry, who was sitting next to him, looking strangely diminished without his leather jacket. There was an uncharacteristic uncertainty in his eyes, like he was afraid that Jon would shatter if he made the wrong move.

“Hi,” Jon said, then frowned and wet his lips when it came out dry and raspy.

Gerry jerked his head in the direction of the cereal, and Jon obligingly took a sip of the milk. It was unexpectedly refreshing, and he found himself draining half the bowel before he knew it. He sheepishly wiped away the milk mustache on his upper lip and set the bowel on the table in front of him.

“I called the guy about the flat in Oxford,” Gerry told him casually. “It’s ours. We can move in tomorrow.”

Jon stilled, a sharp, stabbing pain in his chest leaving him momentarily breathless. It was in his head, of course. He had no physical injuries, he had to just...push past it. He couldn’t leave all of the work to Gerry.

He shaped the words he wanted to say in his mind, took a running start at them, like a sprinter approaching a set of hurdles. “That’s good,” he managed, but then he stumbled. _Sprinter down, hurdles in a heap on the floor_ . “That’s good,” he repeated lamely, tugging the leather jacket— _Gerry’s_ leather jacket, now that he thought about it—tighter around his shoulders.

Gerry said nothing in response to that, but his jaw tightened, and he wrapped his arm over Jon’s shoulders and tugged him closer. Jon followed the movement, laying his head against Gerry’s shoulder, staring blankly at his hands half-curled in his lap.

An indeterminate amount of time later Gerry pressed a kiss to the top of his head and said, quiet and fierce, “I love you.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon whispered back. _For not defending you,_ he didn’t say. _For not standing up for myself,_ he did not say. _For everything._

Gerry let out a quiet noise, and tightened his grip. “Don’t you dare,” he said, pressing another firm kiss against Jon’s head. Jon registered the faint catch in Gerry’s voice, like he was trying to keep from crying. “None of this was your fault. Don’t you _dare.”_

**_Gertrude_ **

It had been raining solidly for the past two days.

Gertrude couldn’t see it from her office, but she knew it to be true. Her bones ached, slow and subtle, and there was a tension headache building behind her temples. It didn’t used to bother her so much, but now that she was solidly in her sixties, it was getting harder to ignore. And the words were blurring a little on the page in front of her, so she probably needed a new prescription.

 _Getting old,_ she thought, amused. _Never would have imagined._ Even with the care she’d put into not being outsmarted, she knew that she wasn’t infallible. She’d expected to die by the hands of something smarter and more careful than her years ago.

She chuckled. Case in point, _Jurgen Leitner is living like a rat in the tunnels._ She liked to think about that whenever she got maudlin.

She looked up and frowned when she heard footsteps approaching the door to her office. _Not trying to quiet their footsteps, light, quick cadence, that’ll be Rosie. No danger._ She stopped reaching for the drawer that held her gun.

Sure enough, a couple of seconds later there was a knock at the door, and then Rosie peeked in. “Gertrude?”

“Come in, Rosie,” Gertrude said, folding her hands on top of her desk and smiling airily.

Rosie did so, smiling back at Gertrude. Bless her, she was still under the impression that Gertrude was a sweet, biddable old lady who occasionally took academic trips halfway around the world.

“What brings you to the Archives today, dear?”

Rosie absently patted at the folds of her skirt. “Well, Gertrude, we’ve gotten somewhat of an odd request.”

Gertrude raised an eyebrow, wishing that she could ask, _odd as in normal odd, or odd as in fear entity odd?_ “Oh?”

“A young man is here, insisting on making a statement.”

Gertrude furrowed her eyebrows in polite confusion. “Well that’s hardly unusual.”

“Yes, but,” Rosie’s absent patting turned into nervous fiddling. “He’s insisting that he talk to you, and only you. He seemed quite...distraught.”

Gertrude bit down on a derisive snort, forcing her smile to turn into a regretful frown. “That’s...unfortunate, but I can’t make exceptions to the rules. Please tell him that the assistants are more than sufficient.”

“I told him. Of course I did. He told me to tell you that it had something to do with a Leitner, and that you were the only person who could help him.” A worried, motherly frown crossed her features. “He really...he seemed like he was in a bad way.”

Gertrude paused at that, considering, tapping her fingers against her desk. Rosie’s motherly instincts aside, she was getting a bad feeling about this. This wouldn’t be the first time that an avatar has attacked the Institute, and she knew that the Lightless Flame’s followers were still sore over their messiah.

Finally Gertrude shook her head and opened her mouth—

The phone on her desk rang.

Gertrude and Rosie turned to look at it simultaneously, and for once, the bewilderment on Gertrude’s face was honest. After a couple more rings, Gertrude glanced at Rosie in askance, and then picked up the receiver.

“Gertrude.”

It took everything in her to not let her face contort into an expression of disgust. “Elias. How can I help you?”

Elias didn’t even bother with the false pleasantries this time. “You should really talk to that young man, Gertrude. I think you’ll be interested in what he has to say.”

 _Ugh._ Not more of his meddling. Gertrude smiled gently for Rosie’s benefit, while inwardly she wanted to break the phone over her knee. “This is quite unusual, Elias. I’m not sure what benefit this would have.”

“Consider it a present from me to you,” Elias’ voice was light, not quite dipping into smugness.

“A present from _you?_ How sweet. You shouldn’t have.” _You never do anything unless it benefits you, so cut the bullshit, Elias._

“Talk to him, Gertrude,” Elias repeated. And then he hung up.

Gertrude tightened her grip on the receiver, before forcing her hand to relax and putting the phone down. She did not _like_ this. The feeling of danger had grown exponentially now that Elias had shown a vested interest.

But she was _also_ far more curious. She was pretty sure that Elias wouldn’t do anything that could be detrimental to his precious Archives.

“Word from on high. Send him in, dear,” Gertrude told Rosie gently.

Gertrude’s first thought when the man walked in was, _Rosie had not been kidding when she said he was in a bad way._

It had been raining the past couple of days, and this man looked as though he’d been outside the whole time. He was literally dripping, soaking wet, his hair sticking to his face, collecting in puddles onto the floor. His oversized shirt clung to him, emphasizing how skinny his frame was, the sharpness of his collarbones, of his face. The worst part was his eyes, though. They were sunken into his face, rimmed with dark shadows, and darted about nervously, like he was searching for enemies in every corner of the room.

He looked like he might have been handsome once upon a time, but now he just looked like a man at the end of his rope. He wasn’t an avatar, though, so that was good.

Gertrude stared at the man for a moment, then clicked her intercom button and said, “Rosie, would you please get this young man some towels?”

_“Already on it, Gertrude.”_

Then she leaned back in her seat, staring the man down, waiting. He shuffled about the room for a moment, squelching with every movement, before stiffly lowering himself into the chair across from her.

“You’re the Head Archivist,” the man said flatly, finally meeting her gaze.

“That’s correct,” she agreed cautiously, still uncertain of the man’s angle, or if he even had one. “Gertrude Robinson.”

He didn’t respond for a moment, fingers bunched tightly in his t-shirt. Then, like an afterthought, “Jonathan Sims.”

Gertrude hummed. A name was...something, at least. “And what can I do for you, Mr. Sims?”

That was the moment that Rosie came in. Sims almost scrambled out of his seat at the sudden sound, and stared the secretary down suspiciously as he took the bundle of towels from her. He only stopped glaring at Rosie when she finally left the room. He slowly turned back to Gertrude, and wrapped one of the towels around his shoulders.

 _Skittish._ Gertrude tilted her head.

“Mr. Sims?” she prompted.

“I need your help,” he said, suddenly intense, ferocious, a ball of barely-contained emotion.

“I think you need a bit more help than I can provide,” she responded dryly, half wondering if he _was_ some sort of avatar. “But I assume that you’re looking for something a bit more specific.”

“You’ve dealt with Leitners before,” Sims asserted.

 _More than you know._ “I have.”

Sims took a deep breath and leaned toward the desk. Gertrude had to bite her tongue to keep from snapping at him not to get water on her papers. “Would you know how to get rid of a spirit bound to one?”

Gertrude stilled. “Come again?”

“My—someone I know tried to bind herself to a Leitner. It was—imperfect, though, she keeps _manifesting._ ” Sims ran his hands through his hair, but only succeeded in getting his fingers stuck in the wet strands. “She needs to—I _have_ to stop her. She, she...she can’t be allowed to exist. I…”

“Slow down,” Gertrude said, holding up a hand to stop his increasingly nonsensical litany. “Would you like to start from the beginning?”

For a second, Gertrude thought that she had him. But then the manic energy in his face cleared, leaving razor-sharp awareness in its place.

“I’m not here to tell a story,” he snapped. “I’m here to help my friend. Can you or can you not do it?”

Gertrude spread her hands helplessly in front of her, her heart thrumming steadily in her chest. “I’m afraid that I can’t help you unless you make a statement. Institute policy, you understand.”

“Institute policy,” Sims intoned flatly.

Gertrude hummed in agreement. She knew that she had him. She’d known from the moment he’d walked into her office that he would do anything to get her help. _Stupid._ She almost pitied him. _Never show your hand like that._

Sims’ shoulders deflated, and he let out a low, resigned sigh, just like she knew that he would. “Fine. A statement, in exchange for you helping me.”

“Excellent,” she smiled and placed a tape recorder on her desk. “Statement of Jonathan Sims, given May eighth, regarding…”

“The Leitner that showed me my worst fear,” Sims said tiredly. “In 2001.”

“The Leitner that showed him his worst fear,” Gertrude nodded. “Incident occurred in 2001. Audio taken direct from subject.”

Sims shifted backward in his seat, eyes growing distant, and began to speak. 

He talked about meeting a teenager in a bookshop in the middle of searching for more Leitners to research. He talked about accompanying the teenager as he looked for Leitners, as he gathered them and delivered them to his mother. How that same mother handing Sims a Leitner which showed him a spider, his worst fear, was what finally broke the teen from his mother’s grasp.

When Gertrude heard the name _Gerry,_ she was bemused, disbelieving, because no. Not a _chance._ But when Sims uttered the name _Mary Keay,_ she almost jumped out of her chair and stopped him right there. _I knew that Mary had finally gotten herself killed, but I did_ not _expect this,_ she thought, amazed. _Right under my nose, all this time. Elias, you really did come through for once._

“...I haven’t seen him in almost three days now,” Sims said, biting his chapped lips. “That book, Mary, it’s killing him. I need your help before it’s too late and he doesn’t come back.”

Gertrude stopped the tape recorder. She folded her hands over her desk, carefully, calmly. She could _not_ squander the opportunity that had just been dropped into her lap. “I understand, Jonathan.”

“So can you help him?” Sims asked. He looked far less wild than before, but that had only been replaced with pure exhaustion. He was leaning against one side of his chair, like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

“I can,” she nodded, ignoring the way Sims’ lips parted at that, his face filled with cautious, fragile hope. “Bring the book to me when Mary is fading.” she smiled at him encouragingly. “You’ll be able to help your Gerry.”

Gertrude may as well have just shot a bullet straight into his heart. He didn’t make a sound, didn’t burst into messy, noisy tears; he just put his head into his hands and breathed, shoulders barely rising and falling. He looked like he had just shed the weight of the world, and was trying to figure out how to breathe again.

She felt a quiet moment of sympathy for him. He looked remarkably small, half-drowning in his oversized t-shirt, black hair drying into soft, messy waves. He was involved in this life, whether he liked it or not, and he already had so much to lose.

She hoped that Gerry was nothing like his mother had been.

**_Age: 22_ **

Jon found Gerry collapsed outside their flat door three days after he gave Gertrude his statement.

He didn’t say a word, didn’t react. He let out a low, quiet sigh, and bodily wrapped his arms under Gerry’s armpits, and dragged him inside. Gerry was still breathing, at least, even though he was so pale and cold that he looked like a corpse.

Jon dug through Gerry’s pockets for a moment, and pulled out the book. He draped a blanket over Gerry’s shoulders, before walking out the door and driving straight to the Institute. He gave the package to the nice woman at the front desk, who smiled kindly and told him that she would get it to Gertrude right away. It was a two hour round trip, but he hardly noticed the time pass.

And then he was home again. Gerry was still lying on the floor, wrapped haphazardly in that blanket.

Jon let out a quiet sigh and sat down next to him. He was so, so tired. He’d barely gotten any sleep in the past week, too worried about Gerry. Now that Gerry was here, though, everything was...not fine, but better. 

He let his eyelids slide shut. It wouldn’t hurt to rest his burning eyes for a moment. He needed to get up, get Gerry more blankets. Was he forgetting something? He didn’t...

When Jon woke up again, the flat was completely bathed in darkness. He blinked blearily at the world at large, groaning when his back and neck screamed at him. His eyes widened when he looked at the clock, because it was almost two in the morning. He’d slept _ten hours._ No wonder he was so sore.

Jon slowly, painfully shuffled to his feet, pausing to wince at the way his lower back was absolutely screaming at him. He glanced over at Gerry—

Gerry wasn’t there.

Oh god. Oh no, no, _nonononon—_

“Jon,” a voice rasped, and Jon froze and looked up.

Gerry was—he was—standing in the doorway to the bathroom, backlit by the artificial fluorescent lights. He looked terrible, still pale, still tired, but his eyes were _open,_ and—

“Gerry,” Jon whispered, and practically fell over the couch in his haste to reach his partner.

_“Stop.”_

Jon paused in his tracks, for the first time seeing the expression on Gerry’s face. His expression was contorted pain, anger, and something else that Jon couldn’t place.

“What did you do?” Gerry took a step toward him.

Jon swallowed, feeling as though the floor had fallen away from him. This was _not_ how this was supposed to go. “What do you mean?”

“What did you _do,_ Jon?” Gerry took another step toward him, until he was a tall, looming specter. Jon swayed toward him, because he could _see_ the pain there, the vulnerability, like Mary had broken him open. “What did you give up for me, Jon? What the _hell_ did you do?”

Oh.

“I didn’t give up anything,” Jon stepped forward tentatively, encouraged when Gerry didn’t move away. “I—I went to the Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute for help. I just had to give a statement, nothing more.”

Gerry was quiet. Jon desperately wanted to reach out to him, but he didn’t dare, not when he was so visibly fragile.

“And she said she would help,” he said after a moment.

“She has the book now,” Jon told him, finally taking that final step into his space, finally taking his hand. Gerry gasped and shivered, and Jon squeezed those icy fingers. “She said that she could help.”

For a moment there was pure silence. It was only Gerry’s hand in his, Gerry’s tentative hope, as fragile as porcelain, as precious as gold. They stood there, breathing in the dark, as Gerry’s hand began to warm just the slightest bit in his.

Gerry let out a quiet, terrible noise. His shoulders were trembling now, too.

Jon opened his arms, and Gerry fell into them. They clung to each other as they once had, the intensity of their shared desperation and terror over the past week almost unbearable. Jon felt a wet patch spreading on his shoulder, but he didn’t care, because Gerry was here, and nothing was worth more than that.

Jon thought back to Gerry’s frantic question— _what did you give up for me—_ and realized that it was not so farfetched an accusation.

There was quite a lot that he would have given up for this man.

“I’m sorry,” Gerry gasped next to Jon’s ear, watery and bereft. “I’m so sorry, Jon, I know—”

“Shhh,” Jon ran his hands through Gerry’s sticky hair. “We can talk about it in the morning. Let’s go to sleep.”

Gerry didn’t move, and for a moment Jon wondered if he’d heard him. Then he retreated, just enough to let Jon sneak a steadying arm around his waist. They limped into the bedroom together, though Jon couldn’t help but let out a sigh of relief when he finally deposited Gerry onto their blankets. He was _heavy._

Gerry leaned over and tried unbuckling his shoes, but his fingers were still shaking, still too cold to manage any dextrous movements. Jon pushed his hands out of the way and started undoing the buckles himself. Together they managed to get Gerry out of his needlessly complicated combat boots, and then his dirty leather jacket.

Jon decided to worry about the rest in the morning. Gerry was wavering back and forth, and he didn’t have the energy to try and get him into a set of sleep clothes.

“You’re wearing my shirt,” Gerry slurred, reaching out and taking Jon’s sleeve between his fingers.

Jon paused, for a moment so relieved that Gerry was here, safe in bed, rather than _god knows where,_ that it left him breathless.

Then he gently took Gerry’s hand in his, and guided him under the covers. “Yes,” he said.

Gerry hummed, a smile quirking his lips. “Looks good on you.”

Jon smiled helplessly, tucking Gerry’s bangs away from his face.

* * *

They didn’t talk about it the next day, or the day after that, because Gerry got a fever so bad it left him unable to do much of anything except toss and turn in bed. Jon set up a small work area on the floor so he could periodically stuff pills and warm soup into Gerry and still do his homework, which he was very behind on.

The third day, Jon was in the kitchen, wondering whether or not Gerry would be able to keep down a couple of eggs, when he heard soft footsteps behind him. That was the only warning he got before two heavy arms curled over his shoulders, and a somewhat sweaty but normal temperature cheek pressed against his.

“Feeling better?” Jon asked, reaching up and clumsily patting Gerry’s cheek before dropping his hand to his side.

Gerry hummed in agreement. “I feel disgusting, though.”

“No surprise,” he responded dryly. “I don’t think that you’ve taken a shower in…”

Wait a minute. Did rainstorms count as showers?

Gerry shook his head and let go of Jon. “That pause went on a little too long. I’m going to go get clean.”

“I’ll have breakfast for you when you get out.”

Gerry let out a surprised laugh. “Wow, maybe I should get sick more often, if I get breakfast out of it.”

Jon turned around and waved his spatula threateningly. “ _Don’t_ get used to it. It’s a one time thing, alright?”

He laughed and raised his hands in surrender, before heading to the bathroom. Jon watched him go, relief a comfortable weight in his stomach, before turning back to the eggs. By the time Gerry got out of the shower, Jon had made two plates of scrambled eggs and toast, and topped up tall, icy glasses of orange juice.

Gerry barely took a second to thank Jon before he was diving into the plate, apparently ravenous after almost two days of nothing but fluids. Jon waited until he’d made himself another two plates of eggs and devoured a banana before setting down his utensils and clearing his throat.

“Gerry,” he began.

Gerry immediately sensed the change in tone. He finished swallowing his last bite of eggs before putting down his knife and fork as well. “Yes, Jon?”

“I have to ask,” he continued apologetically. “But where did you go? What did you...what did you do? With Mary.”

Gerry was quiet for a moment, carefully wiping a napkin across his upper lip.

“I wouldn’t ask, but I just...I’m worried. You were gone for _a whole week,_ and you didn’t have the motorcycle, which means you were just...wandering around on foot? I don’t know,” Jon was aware that he was starting to babble, but he just couldn’t help it. “I just—I just want to make sure that—”

“Would you believe me if I said that I genuinely don’t remember?” Gerry asked wryly.

“...do you?”

Gerry grimaced, his hands folding into loose fists. “I mean—yes and no. I remember flashes of certain things, of...having some sort of purpose? Following orders, but not where, exactly.” He stared blankly into his mostly empty plate, eyes distant. “I think that I might have—I don’t know. Maybe there was a—a Leitner involved…”

“Gerry,” Jon reached out and laid his hand over his partner’s. “I’m sorry, I know that this is hard for you. I shouldn’t have asked so soon.”

“I just don’t _remember,_ Jon,” Gerry said miserably. “I wish I did, but it—it _hurts_.”

Gerry had never liked to admit when he is in pain. Jon could count on one hand the amount of times Gerry had admitted that he was in pain and meant it.

“That’s fine,” Jon squeezed Gerry’s hand again, trying to smile reassuringly. He was not good at this whole...comfort thing. “Do you want to...to watch some TV? Take it easy?”

Gerry sent him a small, relieved smile and nodded.

The rest of the day, Jon sat on the sofa, Gerry’s head pillowed in his lap. They watched stupid cable TV while Jon pet Gerry’s long hair, twisted it into complicated braids and then carefully undid them. Gerry, still exhausted from a full week under Mary’s thrall, dozed in and out, occasionally breaking from his stupor just long enough to jokingly complain to Jon that he was pulling too hard.

Even though Gerry wasn’t being serious, Jon always endeavored to soften his touch. Gerry might not think that he seriously deserved that sort of gentleness, but Jon wanted to give it to him anyway.

* * *

Three days later, there was a knock on their door.

Gerry, who was sitting on the couch, wrapped in blankets, surfing the internet for some new jobs, moved to put aside his laptop. Jon, in the middle of doing his homework at the desk, shook his head and got to his feet. Gerry had developed a bit of a cough, and Jon was fussing. Just a little.

Jon peered through the peephole, and immediately felt his good mood vanish up in smoke.

“It’s Gertrude,” he told Gerry.

Gerry’s head jerked up, what little color that had entered his face in the past few days drained away. He shoved the blankets from his shoulders and patted them over the couch, stifling a cough behind his hand. Once he was settled, he nodded.

Jon studied his face, before nodding back and opening the door.

“Gertrude,” he said. “How did you find this place?”

Gertrude raised an imperious eyebrow at him, and Jon immediately knew that his assessment that she was more dangerous than she let on was accurate. She pushed past him, and then her eyes alighted on Gerry. Jon scowled and stepped closer to the couch, so he was closer to him than Gertrude was.

“Hm,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Same way he’s good at finding Leitners, I think.”

Jon shared a confused look with Gerry. _Those ‘good feelings’ he sometimes gets?_

But that wasn’t the _point_ right now. Jon put the thought aside and said, “Did you do it?”

Without ceremony, Gertrude reached into her bag and pulled out a familiar book. She pulled out a page, burned and mangled beyond all recognition, and held it out to Gerry.

Gerry just looked at it, his expression blank, but there was something fragile about the set of his mouth. Jon took the page from her, quickly skimming the familiar words, before swallowing and holding it out to Gerry.

“It’s hers,” he whispered.

Gerry took it from him without reading it, folded it up, and stuck it into his pocket, his movements short and worryingly mechanical. Jon wanted to reach out to him, ask what was going on in that brilliant mind of his, but he didn’t dare with Gertrude watching them so intently.

“That’s not the only reason you’re here,” Gerry said evenly.

“No,” Gertrude agreed, just as evenly.

Jon shifted uncomfortably, and moved so that he was standing directly behind Gerry. He didn’t like this. Their encounter with Mary was still too fresh in his mind, and they didn’t _know_ Gertrude. He still had the creeping suspicion that she knew far more than she was letting on, and he didn’t trust Gerry’s composure, not so soon after seeing Mary’s page ripped to nothing.

Gertrude’s eyes flickered to him, and her lips quirked with amusement, letting him know that she hadn’t missed his agitation. Jon’s scowl deepened. “Why are you here, then?”

Gertrude nodded at him, and then turned to Gerry. “You have some talent for finding Leitners.”

“No.” The word was out before Jon even knew that he was even saying it.

Gertrude’s eyes flew to him. “Excuse me?” she asked coolly.

“Let’s cut the bullshit,” he responded flatly, shaking his head derisively. “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want something, and you’ve already made two comments about Gerry’s ability to find Leitners. You want his help.”

“Jon,” Gerry said, voice strained, but then broke off into a cough.

“It would be easier for you to find Leitners with the resources of the Institute,” she said mildly, not even bothering to deny it. “And I’m getting on in my years. Quid pro quo, so to speak.”

Jon snorted and opened his mouth to argue, but—

“Jon,” Gerry repeated. Jon looked down, but all he could see was the back of Gerry’s head. “Let her speak.”

“You can’t seriously—”

“I want to hear what she has to say,” Gerry said.

Jon frowned and subsided, unsettled.

Gertrude fixed Gerry with a considering look. “There’s more to these books and the monsters than the fact that they’re supernatural. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

Jon’s hand tightened on Gerry’s shoulder. They’d noticed, and they had a vague idea of what they were, but they weren’t certain. Gerry suspected that Mary knew, but he’d stopped paying attention to her after he’d essentially moved in with Jon.

“I don’t want to go into much detail now,” she continued. “But if you were to join me, I could tell you everything. You would get to destroy as many Leitners as you wanted, and get paid for it.”

“And what about Jon?” Gerry asked sharply. “Is he not invited?”

Gertrude fixed Jon with another unimpressed eyebrow. “He hasn’t told you?”

Gerry finally turned to look at Jon, confused. Jon swallowed and met Gerry’s eyes. “I haven’t made my decision yet.”

“But Elias made you a job offer,” she sounded so smug, it made Jon want to grind his teeth to nubs. “He caught you on your way out and offered you a place in the Archives after you graduate.”

Jon opened his mouth to ask how the _hell_ she knew that, before remembering the comment that she made in response to him asking how she found their home. _Probably a ‘feeling’, or whatever._ Instead he steeled his resolve and said, “He did.”

Gerry twisted around fully now, his grey eyes narrowed with concern. “Now _that’s_ suspicious. You aren’t worried about a strange man accosting you and offering you a job when he doesn’t even _know you?_ Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

“When would I have told you?” Jon hissed, once more darting an uncomfortable look toward Gertrude. “You’ve been...well, you know. And I haven’t decided whether or not I’m going to accept the position. It wasn’t important.”

Gerry conceded the point with a wince. Then he turned back to Gertrude and said, “Do you mind if we think this over a little more?”

“Of course,” Gertrude rose to her feet, tucking her coat tighter around her shoulders. She held out her card, and Gerry took it slowly, as though it would explode in his hand. “And Jon, if you wish, you _can_ join me as another assistant.” A dark smile crossed her face. “Elias will just have to live with the disappointment. Call me when you make up your mind.”

And then she was gone. Jon hastened to lock the door after her, before turning back to Gerry, mouth open to initiate a conversation about what had just happened. He paused when he realized that Gerry was now staring intently at her card, a hungry light in his eyes.

 _Ah,_ Jon thought. He let out a low, resigned sigh, and made his way over to the couch, flopping onto it. Gerry looked up from the card for a moment and wrapped his arm around Jon’s shoulders, cuddling him closer.

“You want to do it, huh?” Jon asked.

“I—” Gerry smiled sheepishly. “...that obvious?”

“It is,” Jon said dryly. “What makes you want to do this so badly, Ger?” he felt his voice go soft, pleading. “We do good work here, at home. I don’t trust her.”

Gerry paused for a moment, adjusting the two of them so that they were lying on the couch, Jon draped over his chest. Jon curled his arms around Gerry’s waist and buried his face into his collarbone, sighing in contentment as warm arms wrapped around him.

“She’s offering us answers, Jon,” Gerry murmured, soothingly brushing Jon’s hair away from his forehead. “What we’re doing, it’s _dangerous._ The more we know, the better prepared we’ll be.”

Jon let out a muffled, disgruntled _harrumph._ Gerry was right, of course he was. That didn’t mean that he had to like it.

“And speaking of dangerous,” Gerry tilted Jon’s head up. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me about this _very suspicious_ job offer?”

“Gerry,” Jon looked away, which was a bit difficult considering how close their faces were. “...I told you why.”

Gerry was quiet for a moment, absently stroking Jon’s hair. When he looked up, Gerry’s grey eyes were watching him, gentle and thoughtful. “I really worried you, didn’t I?”

Jon pressed his face into Gerry’s chest again so that he could hide his expression. “...mm.”

There was a moment of quiet, and then the soft press of lips against his forehead. “I’m sorry, Jon.”

“You scared the _shit_ out of me,” Jon whispered. And now that he’d started, he couldn’t stop, his eyes burning. He’d suppressed these words for days, because Gerry shouldn’t have to comfort him after what he’d just been through. This was—this was stupid. He should just _shut up._ “I—you just disappeared for _days_ at a time, and then you just—I didn’t know where you _were,_ and you were always so—so _scared—”_

“I know, I’m sorry,” Gerry repeated, pressing Jon closer. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Jon fell silent, but only because if he spoke, his voice would break. Instead he clung on, and Gerry clung back, as they always had, and—

Jon knew that he would do anything for him, _including_ join him in his mad alliance with Gertrude Robinson.

**_Age: 24_ **

Jon stretched his arms over his head, a yawn cracking his mouth open wide. Somewhere behind him, still messing with their duffel bags, Gerry chuckled quietly.

“I don’t know how you’re still tired,” he said. “You slept through most of that flight.”

Jon huffed, and finally let his arms drop to his sides. They had just gotten back from another trip to Russia, and the flight had been a little over ten hours. Gertrude had sat a little up the plane for them, so Jon hadn’t felt the need to act respectably. He’d folded his jacket against Gerry’s shoulder and passed out for most of it.

“I don’t know how you’re _not_ tired,” Jon shot back, turning to give Gerry a quick onceover. It was only then that he noticed the way that Gerry was squinting at the tags on their bag, and the tension creasing his brow. “Headache?”

“Hm?” Gerry looked up, blinking rapidly and shaking his head. Then he nodded, rubbing at his temple. “Oh. Yeah, a bit.”

Jon hummed in sympathy. “There’s some paracetamol in the bathroom. Want to order curry? Food might help.”

Gerry’s headache must not have been too bad, because he sent Jon a knowing look. “If you get curry on your notes about the ritual, you’re going to throw a fit.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “I’ll be careful. It’s not like I wasn’t going to put these on the computer, anyway, so it doesn’t really matter.”

Gerry and Jon had scraped enough money between the two of them last Christmas to buy a laptop. Jon didn’t use it for much more than organizing notes about Leitners and doing research, but Gerry was slowly absorbing the internet’s trove of cat videos. Gertrude had sent their laptop a considering look last time she’d seen it, which meant that she was probably _also_ planning on buying a laptop.

It was useful for keeping track of what Leitners fell under what entities. Jon had a file titled ‘statements’, and fourteen files within that file named after the entities, all full of statements associated with that entity. He also had another file titled ‘rituals’, and had recorded all the information he knew regarding each one. It was very neat, very organized.

As Jon dialed the curry place, he heard the rattle of the pill bottle from the bathroom. Then Gerry emerged, his long, black hair pulled into a bun at the top of his head.

“We’ll need to redye your hair soon,” Jon commented. “Have you considered doing your eyebrows this time? I’ve _told_ you how—”

“—ridiculous I look with just my hair done, I know.” Gerry rolled his eyes in exasperation. “You know I don’t like getting those sort of chemicals near my eyes.”

Jon opened his mouth to respond, but paused when the curry place answered. He rattled off their respective orders—they got the same thing every time, after all—before hanging up. He tugged the laptop onto his lap and booted it up. “You know I’d be careful, Gerry.”

“I don’t know,” Gerry responded airily. “You might decide to blind me.”

Jon raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “Now, why would I do that?”

“No reason,” he responded innocently, and finally stopped circling the room to flop onto the couch. He draped an arm over his face and sighed, sinking into the cushions.

Jon narrowed his eyes at Gerry, before having a sudden realization and quickly opening his neat, organized folders regarding the entities. A brief examination proved his fear to be true. “Gerry, did you rearrange my files again?”

Gerry lifted his arm just enough to shoot Jon a mischievous grin.

“I just _might_ blind you,” Jon grumbled darkly.

**_Age:25_ **

“Are you sure that you’re okay?” Jon asked, hovering at Gerry’s side.

“I’m fine,” he hissed, pressing a hand to his bleeding forehead. It wasn’t that bad, but the way that he’d gotten it was rather shocking. “I can’t believe I just…”

Gertrude was frowning at the two of them, her arms folded over her chest. Jon darted a glance at her, trying to figure out if there was anything more to her expression than usual. Of course it was unreadable, it always was.

Gerry had just...run face-first into a pole. In broad _daylight._

“Are you sure that you don’t need to get your eyes checked?” Jon asked, only half-joking.

“My eyes are _fine,”_ Gerry snapped, before reaching aimlessly for Jon. “Help me up.”

Jon felt the worry in his stomach deepen, but he immediately took Gerry’s hand and levered him upright. Gerry teetered for a few worrying seconds, still holding his head, before letting his hands drop to his side with a sigh.

Jon peered into his eyes, checking for signs of a concussion. Gerry allowed the inspection without protest, his eyes rimmed with tension, his lips red and chapped from where he’d bitten them. Finally Jon subsided with a sigh. “I don’t think you’re concussed, but are you sure…?”

Gerry shook his head and immediately winced. “I’m fine, Jon. Let’s just get this over with.”

Jon shot one last glance toward Gertrude. She didn’t meet his gaze.

* * *

“You boys need to be more careful,” Gertrude told them sternly, glaring from over the top of her glasses.

Jon shifted, chastised, but Gerry only grinned. He’d always been better at weathering Gertrude’s disapproval. “Worried about us? You’re going soft in your old age.”

She smiled at that. It was faint, but it was there. Gerry had always been good at that, making her smile. Probably because he had so much experience charming people who were not the type to be charmed.

“When can I go back to get another look at the skin?” Jon asked.

Gertrude thought about that for a moment, before shaking her head. “Not right now. It’ll be suspicious if you keep going back.”

Jon nodded. Out of the corner of his eye, Gerry blinked rapidly and swayed, his grin fading like snow melting in the sun.

**_Age: 26_ **

Jon stood in front of the stove, staring at the cooking eggs, rolling the spatula between his fingertips.

Gerry still wasn’t awake.

Of course it was fine if Gerry wasn’t awake yet. He could have a lie-in whenever he wanted. It even made sense, since they didn’t have work today.

It was fine. _They_ were fine. Everything was...fine.

Jon almost turned around and rushed over when he heard a telltale thump from the bedroom, but forced himself to keep staring at the eggs. They looked like they might almost be done. He should...get a plate. Or something.

Or something.

There was a quiet thump, and then Gerry’s voice was drifting through the open door, still muzzy with sleep. “Jon, something smells like it’s burning.”

Jon jerked, and _that’s_ when he realized that he hadn’t touched the eggs in almost ten minutes. He hastily flipped them over, wincing at how dark the bottom was, and dumped them into the garbage can.

“Something on your mind, Jon?” Gerry asked as he padded across the living room, into the kitchen.

Jon paused, still holding the pan and the spatula, and took a long, deep breath. Then he carefully set them down on the stove and turned around to face Gerry, taking in the bags under his eyes, the way his gaze just the slightest bit unfocused. His resolve hardened.

“I’ve booked an appointment,” Jon told him.

Gerry blinked and furrowed his eyebrows. “Come again?”

“A doctor’s appointment,” he continued nervously. “For you. Today.”

Now Gerry _really_ looked confused, and a little indignant besides. “Jon, why on earth would you do that?”

“Gerry,” Jon sighed harshly and turned toward the counter, resting his hands against the cheap boards. “Gerry, you haven’t been—I don’t know what it looks like to you, but I’ve been noticing…”

“Is this about the headaches?” Gerry asked, exasperated. “They’re just headaches, Jon. It’s not like—”

“It’s not just about the headaches,” Jon said lowly, feeling his shoulders tense up about his ears. “It’s about the—the _constant_ headaches. And you have trouble focusing sometimes, don’t think I haven’t noticed. And you’ve been so tired, and it’s all been getting worse lately, and I think something might be _really wrong.”_

There was a brief, weighted pause.

“You shouldn’t have done that without asking me.”

Jon turned around, his frayed temper finally snapping. “I have tried to talk about this with you before! And every time you’ve brushed me off! You’re going to this doctor’s appointment if I have to force you there myself!”

That was the wrong thing to say, and Jon knew it the moment the words left his lips.

Gerry’s face twisted angrily. “I will not be forced to do anything by _anyone._ Not even you.”

“I know, I know.” God. He dragged his hands through his hair and turned back to the counter. He was going about this all wrong. Why was this so damn _hard?_ “It’s just—you wouldn’t have done it yourself, Gerry. You don’t know what it looks like from the outside.”

There was another moment of silence. Jon kept staring at the counter, hardly daring to breathe, hoping that Gerry wouldn’t just walk out of the flat. It’d only happened a couple of times, but it was always over something like this: Jon making a decision for Gerry. He’d known that he was playing with fire the moment he’d placed the call, but he saw no other way to go about it.

“It’s that bad, huh?”

That wasn’t quite forgiveness, but it didn’t sound quite so angry. Jon felt his shoulders deflate as he nodded.

A longer pause.

“Well, alright,” Gerry sighed. “I’ll go, if only to prove that nothing’s wrong. You worrywart.”

* * *

Jon stared up at the Magnus Institute, trepidation a heavy weight in his gut.

 _Are you sure that you want to do this?_ Gertrude asked in his mind, her slim eyebrows raised in a severe arch. _You know that there’s something wrong with him._

Jon thought about last week. Took a deep breath, steeled his resolve, and marched into the building. He knew that in this he wasn’t smart, but there had only ever been one thing that he was certain about.

Rosie smiled at him as he walked in, long since used to his comings and goings. She’d always fussed over him, probably because she had vivid memories of him stumbling into the Institute, sopping wet, drowning in his partner’s clothes, exhausted and desperate.

“Elias told me to let you know to come in whenever,” she said gently. “And please convey my sympathies to your young man.”

Jon nodded tersely and marched by her, toward the office of the man whom he was continuously fascinated by, whom he equally distrusted. He set his jaw, knocked on the door, and pushed it open.

Elias Bouchard smiled at him, all snake oil and smoke, his hands folded on the desk in front of him. Jon had never been able to tell quite how old he was. Gertrude insisted that he’d been working at the Institute for almost thirty years, but Jon personally thought that his face didn’t look a day over forty.

“Hello, Jon,” Elias’ smile widened, and he gestured to the chair in front of his desk. “I’m so glad that you decided to come in. I understand that this has all been very hard.”

Jon sat and forced his hands to settle loosely in his lap. There were several bandaids on his cuticles from where he’d been tearing at the dead skin, and he didn’t want to make it any worse. “Thank you, sir.”

Elias waved a cheerful, dismissive hand. “Please, Elias. I think that we can dispense with the formalities, don’t you? You _have_ been working as Gertrude’s assistant for the past three years, after all. That basically makes you my employee already.”

Jon desperately tried to channel Gertrude, to keep his reaction from his face. He wanted to throw the paperweight at Elias’ face. He wanted to punch the man in his stupid nose. But Jon no longer had the freedom to fly all over the world looking for Leitners, and he really, _really_ needed this job, which meant that he needed to play nice. “Of course...Elias.”

Elias beamed. Jon felt sick. “I understand that you want a position in the research department, yes? I would have thought that you would rather work in the Archives with Gertrude, considering that you two have already worked together.”

Jon shifted, and pointedly did not say that positions in the research department were more specialized, and therefore paid more. “My skillset is better suited for research.”

Elias hummed in agreement. “We’re happy to have you working at the Institute itself, though I wish it was under better circumstances. Tell me, how is Mr. Keay? We were all _so_ worried when we heard.”

Jon felt his expression dim. “He’s...he’s fine. They caught the tumor before it got really bad, so...he’ll be fine.”

He did _not_ say that Gerry would be getting surgery in a month for partial removal, and would have to undergo months of chemotherapy afterward. He did not mention that the doctor had pulled him aside and given him a packet of information on the side effects of chemotherapy, and how he might help alleviate them. He did not talk about the doctors discussing possible lingering effects of the tumor, and how it might affect Gerry’s day to day life even in the future. Because it was none of Elias _fucking_ Bouchard’s business.

But there _was_ hope. That was important.

“Well,” Elias seemed unphased. “Send him my best wishes.”

“I will,” Jon responded quietly. “When can I start?”

* * *

Jon sat on the couch, absently stroking his hand along Gerry’s back, staring hard at the computer screen. Every couple of minutes, he took the backscratcher he’d repurposed into a pointer and hit the spacebar so that the document would go to the next page.

He didn’t want to disturb his partner. Gerry had gone through another round of chemotherapy this morning, and it was apparently hitting him pretty hard. He’d spend most of the day curled up with his head on Jon’s lap, unable to stomach even the smallest bit of food. He hadn’t needed to use the bin yet, though. Small mercies. Jon was just relieved that he’d had the foresight to ask to work from home today.

Jon paused in the middle of his soothing motion and frowned at the screen, rereading a sentence. He almost jumped when Gerry let out a quiet noise and shifted so that he was looking up at Jon with his clear grey eyes.

“I thought you were asleep,” he whispered.

“Nah,” Gerry shook his head gingerly. Jon frowned and carefully adjusted the bright red bandana, making sure that it was sitting properly. “Stomach hurts.”

Jon’s hand stilled. “Still?”

“Not as bad as before,” Gerry said reassuringly. Jon knew better. He’d learned how to read his partner’s pain levels from the tightness around his eyes, and the tension hadn’t eased. “How’s research?”

“Fine,” Jon responded, restarting his stroking movement. “Gertrude’s having me do some stuff on the side.”

Gerry was quiet for a moment. Jon absently laid his hand over Gerry’s heart, waiting to feel the reassuring _thump, thump, thump_ , before moving to his back again.

“You’ve been working a lot, lately,” Gerry commented mildly.

“Not that much,” Jon said, using the pointer to type out a note in the margins of the document.

“You’ve been taking work home almost every day.”

Jon bit his lip but said nothing. He hadn’t let Gerry look at their finances, and instead told him to focus on getting better. Gerry would be furious if he knew that Jon had worked out a deal with Elias, that he would be paid for every extra hour he worked from home, but they really, really needed the money.

“What can I say?” Jon smiled down at Gerry, rubbing his thumb over one sharp cheekbone. “I’m a workaholic. How do you feel about trying some soup for dinner?”

Gerry gave him a knowing look, but thankfully didn’t press.

* * *

Jon sat at Gerry’s bedside, his heel bouncing up and down, hands folded in front of his chin.

He’d been warned that Gerry might have a seizure. It was _normal,_ just one of another symptoms of the literal _brain cancer_ that he had. That didn’t stop it from literally being one of the scariest things that Jon had ever seen.

They’d been taking a walk in the park, because Gerry had been feeling pretty good, and wanted to enjoy the nice weather. Jon had been...worried, but he was _always_ worried these days, and Gerry was so pale and thin, he hadn’t been able to say no. And then, halfway through Jon relaying a story about one of his incompetent coworkers, Gerry’s eyes had just...rolled up into his head, and he’s dropped like a puppet who’s strings had been cut.

Jon didn’t know what kind of expression that he’d been wearing when the ambulance had come, but he knew that it must have been pretty ferocious, since they let him into the back without question.

But Gerry was alive. Jon knew this because there was a heart monitor next to the bed, steadily beeping. Jon also knew this because he had his hand wrapped around Gerry’s skinny wrist, his fingers pressed against the pulse point.

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

* * *

“Jon,” Gerry said tentatively. “We should talk about what would happen if—”

“No,” Jon said.

**_Age: 27_ **

Jon woke up the morning after one of Gerry’s chemotherapy sessions to find his partner’s forehead slick and burning with fever.

“How do you feel?” Jon asked.

Gerry took the thermometer out of his mouth and handed it over to Jon without looking. Jon took one look at the reading and winced before gingerly setting it aside. “Stomach hurts,” he said. “But that’s normal.”

Jon sighed and tucked the blanket tighter around Gerry’s shoulders, smoothing it so that it lay perfectly flat. Gerry was almost drowning under several blankets and his biggest, softest sweater, but he was still shivering as though he was cold. “I’ll call in sick.”

It was probably a testament to how awful Gerry was feeling that he didn’t argue, just hummed quietly in acknowledgement. 

Luckily Elias didn’t protest, just told him to tell Gerry ‘get well soon’, which Jon summarily ignored. He called Gertrude as well, who was quiet for a moment before telling him, _if you’re going to be stuck at home anyway, you might as well do some more research regarding the Daedalus._ So at least he would have something to do.

Jon settled onto the couch next to Gerry, who was curled in the nook on one end of the couch, and took out his laptop. Gerry was quiet for the most part, occasionally asking probing, thoughtful questions about the research that directed Jon down some new rabbit hole.

Around lunchtime Gerry started shaking off the blankets. It took one second for Jon to realize that he was making to get up, and another to place a quelling hand on his arm.

“What do you need?” Jon asked.

“I have cancer, there’s nothing wrong with my legs,” Gerry grumbled, rolling his too-bright eyes.

“I’m more worried about you falling over and hitting your head on something,” Jon responded wryly. “I’m going to get you some water. How do you feel about trying to drink broth?”

Gerry went quiet, eyes focused unsteadily on the floor. Then he shrugged, the motion barely perceptible beneath the mound of fabric. Jon squeezed Gerry’s arm, and bustled into the kitchen to try to put together something palatable.

Gerry got halfway through the cup of broth before making a face and pushing it away. Jon frowned, but put some cling wrap over the top and put it in the fridge, just in case Gerry changed his mind and got hungry later.

Several hours later, Jon glanced over at his partner, put down the laptop, and sighed. “Gerry.”

Gerry hummed faintly, his eyes flickering open, his body moulded against the couch like he’d grown out of it.

“We’re moving to the bed,” Jon told him, his tone brooking no argument. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“Don’t want to,” Gerry muttered, shaking his head petulantly. He continued protesting even as Jon helped him to his feet and walked him the short distance to their bedroom. Jon tried to steady him, but Gerry shoved his hand away, muttering something about _invalids_ and _not helpless._

“You _are_ an invalid,” Jon sighed in exasperation. “So help me, I am going to tie you to this bed.”

“Kinky,” Gerry said, sending Jon a playful grin.

Jon let out a disgusted noise and pushed him onto the covers. “You are a _child.”_

Gerry grinned and buried himself under the blankets until only his head, covered in short, stubby hairs, was visible. Jon set his laptop on the bedside table before clambering in after him, carefully settling himself against the pillows.

“Comfortable?” Jon asked.

Gerry let out a quiet, contented noise, shuffling over so that he could curl his hand on Jon’s knee. Jon huffed out a breath and laid his palm over Gerry’s temple, running his fingers over the blond stubble.

“I keep forgetting your hair’s not actually black,” he commented idly.

“Is it weird?”

“No,” Jon shook his head. “Just...different.”

They were quiet for a moment. Jon didn’t want to take out his laptop just yet, didn’t want to break the comfortable silence. The dark was calming, insulating them in their own little world.

At length, Gerry admitted, his voice small and rough with fever, “I miss it.”

Jon hummed in understanding. He missed it, too. More than that, though, he missed how unapologetically confident Gerry had been in himself, the casual swagger with which he braved the world. It made Jon feel like he could be brave, too.

After a few more minutes, Jon sighed and took out his laptop, settling it on his lap. He picked out an album to listen to while he worked, something acoustic and quiet, that wouldn’t disturb Gerry’s sleep. He settled on a compilation of Nickel Creek’s quieter tracks, hitting play on _Out of the Woods._

Gerry’s hand squeezed his knee as the song began, and then settled closer. Jon smiled before turning his focus to the research, barely noticing when Gerry’s breathing smoothed and deepened into sleep.

* * *

“Jon, you _cannot_ keep pretending that I might not die!” Gerry shouted. “We have to talk about this.”

“You’re not going to die,” Jon said calmly, hiding his shaking hands at his side. “The doctors say that it’s going well, the cancer is in _recession—”_

“Shit happens, Jon,” Gerry shook his head, like he wasn’t talking about the fact that he might— _might—_

“No,” Jon felt the tremble in his hands spread to his shoulders, and he couldn’t stop from wrapping his arms around himself. “Gerry, no. I can’t think about that. You won’t die, you can’t—I _can’t—”_

What the hell was he supposed to do? The idea of this disease taking Gerry from him, wasting him away into nothing...it terrified him. He could do nothing but sit uselessly as the person he loved more than anyone else in the world was suffering. What was the _point_ of him?

“What happens if I die, Jon?” Gerry asked desperately. “Are you just going to—to work yourself to death? I couldn’t—couldn’t rest knowing I might be leaving you like _that._ You _have_ to be okay with this. _I have to know that you’re going to be okay.”_

"Don't you dare talk like that. Don't you _dare_ talk like you're already—"

"I am _dying,_ Jon," Gerry rasped. "And maybe I'll be okay, but I—I feel awful, all the time, and sometimes I think—"

He stopped talking, and Jon choked on a sob. Gerry, still so tall, still broader than Jon, even in the depths of chemotherapy and illness, could still engulf him in an embrace. They stood like that for a long, long time, unable to speak, hardly able to breathe.

**_Age: 28_ **

“How are you feeling?” Jon asked tentatively.

Gerry thought about that for a moment, staring at the papers in front of him. It’d been almost a month since his last chemotherapy session, and his blond hair had come back in a little.

“Pretty good,” he said finally. “Want to go for a walk?”

Jon checked the lines around Gerry’s eyes, and signed internally in relief when he saw no tension there. “Let me get my coat.”

They stepped out onto the street together, Jon in a thin jacket, Gerry wearing a sweater beneath his leather trench coat. Jon had managed to bully him into wearing a scarf as well. It wasn’t _that_ chilly outside, but Gerry got cold a lot more easily now.

Gerry tilted his face toward the sun as they meandered toward the park, his arm tucked in Jon’s. Jon watched him for a moment, taking in the sharpness of his cheekbones, the paleness of his skin. He looked...better, though. Better than he had in a long time.

Then his partner let out a quiet sigh, and Jon let their gazes meet.

“What are you thinking about?” Gerry asked.

“You really do look like a vampire, now,” Jon teased. “I can’t stare at you too long or I’ll go blind.”

Gerry let out a surprised bark of laughter and shoved at his shoulder. “Shut up, you.”

* * *

Friday started just like any other day.

He woke up to find Gerry’s long, twiggy limbs sprawled across the bed, drooling into his pillow. Jon rolled his eyes fondly and shoved him away, before putting on his work shirt and trousers and heading out the door. He stopped by a bakery for a bagel and cream cheese, paused to take pictures of a stray cat so he could show Gerry later, before heading inside.

He was just heading toward the Archives to stop by Gertrude’s office as he always did—he’d been doing some more followup on the Unknowing, and needed some clarification—when one of the assistants flagged him down. Martin, Jon thought his name was.

“Gertrude hasn’t come in today,” Martin explained, smiling nervously.

“She hasn’t?” Jon frowned. She hadn’t called to let him know that she was sick, and he knew that she hadn’t planned on going out of the country until next week. “Does anyone know where she is?”

Martin shook his head. Jon walked away, frowning. Gertrude was careful, perhaps the most careful person he knew, but the kind of enemies that she had...he shook his head. It was probably nothing, but he’d give her a call during break to check up on her.

The call heralded no response.

That next week, five days after anyone had last seen Gertrude, Elias called Jon into his office.

“Jon,” Elias said. “I’m sure that you know why I’ve called you in.”

“This is about Gertrude, isn’t it,” he said flatly.

“It is. I’m afraid that she’s officially been declared ‘missing’.” Elias shook his head like this was a shame, but Jon just narrowed his eyes, not buying the ‘worried boss’ act.

“I see,” he responded neutrally. “Thank you for letting me know.”

“I wasn’t done yet,” Elias interrupted, holding up a hand to quiet him. “With Gertrude missing, I’m afraid that a rather essential role in the Archives is vacant. I’m offering the position to you.”

Jon stilled, not quite believing what he was hearing. “...excuse me?”

“You’ve been working with Gertrude for...what, five years now? And you’ve been doing some Archival work for me on the side, besides.” Elias beamed benevolently. “It’s a perfect fit.”

Jon shifted, suspicion and dread warring for dominance. Gertrude had warned him about Elias, warned him about getting involved with the Archives. Not only that, but the fact that Elias didn’t seem to be too concerned about Gertrude’s disappearance, paired with the steady Archival workload for several months now…

Jon didn’t need to be good at math to see the way the numbers were adding up. He just didn’t know what it _meant._

“There are others who have been working in the Archives for longer.”

A dark shadow passed just below the surface of Elias’ face, like a shark in the water. “Yes, but none who worked directly under Gertrude.”

Jon opened his mouth to argue again—

“It also comes with a significant raise,” Elias interrupted, still smiling politely.

Jon froze.

He hadn’t told anyone, not even Gerry, about how much he was struggling to keep their financial heads above water. What with the cancer in recession he was feeling much better, but not good enough to pick up a job.

More money meant less hours, less taking work home. More time with his partner. Less time feeling like he was being stretched in five different directions, less of Gerry looking at him with increasing concern.

Jon swallowed once, twice, his throat clicking it was so dry. There was another reason to take the position. He suspected that Elias had something to do with Gertrude’s death, or at least knew more than he was letting on. If he took this position, they might figure out what had happened.

Jon sighed, feeling exhaustion sink into the marrow of his bones. Gerry was _not_ going to be happy with him. “When do I start?”

* * *

Gerry was not happy with him.

“You know, Jon, you’ve done some pretty stupid shit.”

Jon rolled his eyes.

“I should know. I’ve seen you do some _really stupid shit,”_ Gerry continued, undeterred by his silence. “Do you remember almost crashing the motorcycle? _I_ remember you almost crashing the motorcycle.”

“Yes, thank you, Gerry. I remember almost crashing the motorcycle.”

“But this _takes the cake.”_ Jon turned around just in time to witness Gerry putting one of his combat boots on the coffee table, a challenging glare on his face.

“Gerry, could you—”

“You suspect this man of _murder,_ and you agree take the position of the person he _theoretically murdered?”_ Gerry shook his head slowly. Jon sincerely wished that this energy was being directed at someone other than him, so he could appreciate it properly. “Are you trying to get yourself _killed?_ I thought you knew better than to let yourself become the pawn of someone like _Elias Bouchard.”_

“I know, okay?” Jon turned around and folded his arms over his chest. “I _know._ But if we want answers about what happened to Gertrude, I think that we have to go right to the source. Besides,” Jon appraised him and his wild, restless energy. “I’ll have you to keep me safe, won’t I?”

Gerry stopped dead at that, his eyes widening, something fragile hiding in the corners of his face. After a moment he reached up and touched the side of his head, fingers lingering over the surgery scar.

“Yeah,” he said. “I...suppose that you will.”

* * *

Jon held onto Gerry’s wrist as they walked up the stairs together in silence, counting the heartbeats. Gerry didn’t seem to mind how awkward it made their footsteps, just kept walking forward, walking forward, step by laborious step.

They entered the flat. Shut the door behind them, locked it.

For a moment they stared at each other blankly, uncertain, equally bereft. A lighthouse standing alone on the coast, lighting the way for a ship lost at sea.

_Cancer free._

Jon had never seen Gerry cry throughout the course of the cancer. Not when he’d received the diagnosis, not when he’d been in so much pain it was all he could do to cling to Jon and gasp for breath. He’d tackled each day with a stern, tight-lipped determination.

The first tear slipped down Gerry’s face, and Jon let out a noise like he’d just been stabbed. Then another, and another, and then Gerry was pressing his face into his hands, his shoulders curving under the weight of his relief. Jon crashed into him, and they staggered together, but Jon made sure that they didn’t fall.

“I love you,” Jon said. “I love you. I love you. I—”

Gerry didn’t say anything, just buried his face into Jon’s hair and wept.

* * *

Two days later, Jon put down his work and turned to Gerry, who was boredly flipping through one of Jon’s notebooks.

“So, Gerry,” he began, a smile quirking his lips.

“Yes?” Gerry asked suspiciously.

“I may have gotten you a present,” he said, rising from the couch and walking over to his bag, which was hanging up in the hall.

“A present?”

Jon emerged from his bag with a small box that had a woman with luxurious black hair on the front. He waved it around proudly, beyond pleased with himself that he’d managed to sneak it in without tipping Gerry off. “Hair dye.”

Gerry’s eyes widened, and he touched his still short, dirty blond hair in surprise. “You...think that it’s long enough?”

“Not sure,” Jon admitted sheepishly. “But it doesn’t hurt to find out, does it?”

Gerry hesitated uncertainly, trepidation a living, breathing thing on his face. Then he frowned and shook his head, setting his jaw. “Let’s try it.”

Jon grinned, so proud that it hurt his chest.

Jon laid out newspapers over the side of the bathtub as Gerry stripped to his black t-shirt and put a towel around his shoulders. They moved in tandem, a well-practiced ritual that felt strangely new. Like putting on a favorite sweater after not having worn it for several years.

Jon’s hip knocked into Gerry’s as he sat on the edge of the tub and looked expectantly up at Jon. Jon paused for a moment to skim Gerry’s jaw, drinking him in, before turning to the ingredients.

“You still do that,” Gerry said after a moment.

“Do what?” Jon asked.

“You have this little frown whenever you mix the ingredients,” Gerry explained, a smile in his voice. “It’s cute.”

“It’s not cute, I’m _concentrating_ ,” Jon complained, turning back to his partner and nudging his knees apart so he had better access to Gerry’s hair. Gerry reflexively rested his arms around Jon’s waist, pliant and trusting. “What will people think if I let you out of the house with a shitty dye job?”

Gerry chuckled, then fell silent as Jon began carefully spreading the dye through the short strands. It was a lot easier to handle now that it was this short, and he found himself finishing up much quicker than normal. He was especially gentle around the scars from the surgery, and Gerry didn’t make a sound, his eyes falling shut.

Jon paused for a moment, holding his sticky hands in front of him. Mused over the messy clumps of hair, wet with dye.

“What is it?” Gerry asked, tilting his head back so that he could meet Jon’s eyes.

“Nothing,” Jon said, brusquely taking off the gloves and tossing them into the trash. “It’s just...nice. Doing this again.”

He moved to take a step back, but Gerry’s grip tightened around his waist, holding him in place. He sighed and let his fingertips flutter to Gerry’s shoulders and rest there, curling in the old, faded towel.

“I’ve missed traveling,” Gerry said. “We should go back to Thailand.”

Jon smiled faintly. “I thought you swore never to take me back to Thailand. Something about complaining too much about the humidity?”

“I’ll suffer through it,” Gerry responded cheekily.

“Oh, will you now?”

“And I want real ice cream,” he continued, ignoring the question. “Not those old man flavors that you always get. Really good gelato.”

Jon shook his head, exasperated and fond. “I bought you chocolate fudge ice cream last week, Gerry. I can’t keep spoiling you, it’ll go to your head.”

Gerry laughed at that, and Jon smiled, balling his fingers into his palms.

“Hey, Gerry,” he said, feeling giddy and brave. “I’m going to kiss you now.”

His partner’s eyes widened in breathless surprise, mouth parting. Then his lips curled at the corners, and he tilted his head back. Jon met him halfway, carefully running his fingers over Gerry’s bony shoulders. Gerry made a quiet, pleased noise in his mouth and deepened the kiss, coaxing a warm hum of pleasure from Jon. It was a slow, unhurried thing, lacking the quiet mortal edge that had defined their lives for the past two years. Gerry buried his hands in Jon’s hair, and Jon kissed him back, and there was nothing more than this.

They parted, and Jon carefully fixed the towel, making sure that it lay flat to avoid looking his partner in the eye, strangely shy. Jon could feel Gerry’s fond gaze on him, though, as though the act of seeing him fuss was enough to make him smile.

“‘I am going to kiss you now,’” Gerry quoted after a moment, and then shook his head, putting his hands on Jon’s hips again. “I can’t believe that I said that to you.”

“It was pretty awkward,” Jon agreed. “You’re lucky that I liked you too much to care.”

Gerry was quiet for a minute, rubbing gentle, rhythmic circles into the fabric of Jon’s shirt with his thumbs. Jon let him think, waiting for him to cobble together the words that he wanted to say.

“Yeah,” he said finally, and tugged Jon in for another kiss. “I really, really am.”


End file.
